


Please and Thank You

by Anonymous



Category: Hiveswap
Genre: Blowjobs, Bulges and Nooks, Fic Giveaway, Lowblood!Reader - Freeform, Other, PWP, degradation kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-20
Updated: 2020-05-20
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:01:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24279280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: First place for my fic giveaway on tumblr! The winner asked for Zebruh and a gender neutral, lowblood reader with themes of a degradation kink and focus on a blowjob.Thanks again everyone for the support and kind words!
Relationships: Zebruh Codakk/Reader
Comments: 6
Kudos: 63
Collections: Anonymous





	Please and Thank You

Zebruh Codakk.

Oh, you’ve heard the rumors.  _ Suck up. Stuck up. Bougie bitch. _ If you were the kind of troll who listened to petty gossip, well….

Maybe you wouldn’t be getting into so much trouble, always, all the time. 

As it stands, your first glimpse of him is while he looks down at his palm husk. The light illuminates his expression: brows drawn up, slight frown, eyes disinterested. You hope he hasn’t been waiting long.

Still, you have to admit it: you think he’s handsome! You were worried at first, the gossip getting to you, that he might be under-groomed, or overdressed. But he’s striking, an imposing figure standing in the middle of the sidewalk, hand in his pocket and eyes scanning the crowd. 

And it’s not just because the crowd is about ten degrees warmer than him. His posture is relaxed and confident. And when his eyes finally meet yours, you bring your hand up in a shy wave. 

He winks, and you blush. There’s something dark in his eyes, hard and predatory, dangerous like hailstone against your heart. He calls your name and you nod.

“Hmph,” he lets you fall in stride beside him as he leads you through town. His hand is steady at the small of your back. “I didn’t think this side of town would be quite to my taste.” His nose crinkles as he pushes you forward, just slightly, to keep pace with him. “But I must admit, lowbl- excuse me,” he leans in with a wink, “ _ warm _ bloods, I do know how to be sensitive. Warmbloods have such a charming sense of design. If you can call it that.”

Yeah, it sure does look like everywhere else on Alternia. Maybe he’s asking for the lowblood vernacular?

“Yeah, we call it design.”

He looks over to you, shock clear on his face from his slack jaw to his raised eyebrows. Then he giggles, honest-to-god giggles.

He ruffles your hair. “You’re cute.”

Are you blushing? To distract from that, you ask him where you’re going.

“Oh, well I don’t mean to brag-” he stops, grabbing you by the shoulders to lean in conspiratorially, “-but I am known to be a critic of the fine arts. Rumor has it that there’s a lowblood-owned restaurant on this side of town. Why not give my money to a good cause?”

If he’s talking about Ruhdie’s-

“Ruhdie’s should be right around the corner, my dear.” He leads you forward again with a hand behind your shoulder. 

“Oh, well,” you stutter at his focused expression. You get the sense that people don’t argue with him much. “I don’t know that I would call Ruhdie’s _ fine dining _ , exactly, unless you mean the food is just fine and nothing special.”

“Hm,” he brings his hand back up to his bowtie. “I would like to experience lowblood cuisine for myself at least once in my life. I am a supertaster, you know. How do I know that your tastes are as good as mine, anyway?”

“Well,” you smile up at him. “You don’t know that!”

He lets out a ‘tch,’ and you giggle. He’s so stubborn! It’s cute. “But I am your date, and I don’t want to eat there.” 

“Ha! Well, I do like a lowblood who’s opinionated. You’re not like the rest of them, you know, you’re different,” he looks over and winks. 

You don’t know about that, but you guess highbloods don’t meet a lot of lowbloods, so you give him a pass.

The two of you walk through town together, him with his hand steady on your back, you doing your best to stifle your smiles, your laughter. He’s funny, in a snooty, highblooded way. Each argument about where you should eat tonight is softened by the familiarity of your fellow lowbloods, the soft lighting of the moons, and the warm spring breeze that winds through your hair every so often.

“Why don’t we just get take out,” you tell him, your hand on his bicep. “And we could go back to my place?”

For the first time tonight, Zebruh smiles a genuine smile.

___

The food is forgotten as Zebruh gets lost, going through your stuff.

“The way they force lowbloods to live,” he turns back to you, sitting on your couch. “You deserve better.”

You have no idea what he’s talking about.

“What do you mean?”

He turns to look at you, folding his hands into each other and sending you a look that says that he thinks you know exactly what he’s talking about.

“I mean, living in a hive this run down? Living in squalor? It’s unfair that you don’t even know how good the upper castes have it.”

You bristle.

“I actually really like it here! It’s close to the omniscuttlebus station, and the flowers in the valley below smell sweet in the spring.”

He rolls his eyes. “I know lowbloods aren’t immune to propaganda. If you ever want a perspective check, my hive is always open.” He winks, adjusting his bowtie as if he just said something charming. You stand, upset for the first time tonight.

“Propaganda? I’ve been living here my whole life!” He sits in your vacant spot, loosening his bowtie as he settles into the couch. “Anyway, does it even matter if it’s propaganda? I’m happy here!”

Zebruh raises his brow at you while you let out your steam. You realize you were more frustrated with this than you realized; why is it never enough for lowbloods to just be  _ happy _ ?

“You know,” he interrupts you. “It’s so cute when lowbloods get angry.”

You go still.  _ Don’t start fights with highbloods, don’t start fights with highbloods… _

“Please don’t say that,” you tell him through gritted teeth.

“Oh, well, I’m sorry,” he says as he leans back further into the couch, rolling his eyes. You let out a terse breath, releasing what tension you can. He beckons you forward. You walk into his space and he pushes you down on your knees. “Sorry that I have good taste, anyway. You know...” he runs his thumb over your bottom lip, spreading his legs so you have room to kneel in front of him. “...you should really be apologizing to  _ me _ . It was your job to prepare me for what I was about to experience at your hive.”

“What- I-” he sticks his thumb in your mouth, pressing down on your tongue and jaw, forcing your mouth open as he continues.

“It’s rude to interrupt.”

He continues to “educate” you about lowblood propaganda. In truth, you aren’t really listening. With his thumb pressing down on your tongue, droll spills down from the corners of your mouth and down your chin. Heat pools low in your belly, blood rushes lower.

You can’t help it: propaganda or not, you were made to be used.

While Zebruh continues to talk, your senses are flooded with the smell of his arousal, the salty tang of his skin in your mouth, and the sight of his thighs twitching, subtly, but enough to tip you off. With the rest of his fingers tucked under your chin, he raises your face to look him in the eye.

“My, aren’t you lovely with something in your mouth?” His eyes droop, heavy with lust, but his smile is as charming as it always is. You close your lips around his thumb and suck, savoring his gasp and the twitch of his hips. “I see the rumors are true. Give a lowblood what they don’t know they need and they get greedy for it.” He grabs you by the cheeks, pulling his thumb gently from you, and brings your face to his clothed bulge. “I hate to conform to caste stereotypes, but I’ll admit, I’m glad this one turned out to be true.” 

Since the denim landscape of his crotch isn’t much to look at, you close your eyes, zeroing in on his voice, his smell, the feeling of his hands against the back of your head, and then tight around your horns. He rubs against you, the denim landscape surprisingly soft against you, but becoming coarser and coarser as he continues to rub. If your color wasn’t proud on your face before, it is now; your skin is rubbed warm and raw. Applying every desperate measure, going against your instinct to pull away for more air, you press back, mouthing at his bulge, nuzzling his thighs when you need a break. His soft moans, held back, are sweeter than any symphony. There’s a part of you that understands, now, why he loves music the way he does. How could he not, if he sounds like this?

At once, he holds you still, shifting on the couch.

“It’s like you were made for this,” his breathing has picked up, leaving with his voice. He’s breathless. “Weren’t you?”

Coyly, you mouth at his bulge straining against the prison of his pants. You hum in affirmation, and he groans unabashed above you.

“That’s no way to use your words,” he pulls you back, shifting above you to undo his zipper. “Lucky for you, I’m a professional critic.” He pulls his bulge out, already leaking precum. With a quick stroke, he pulls away his thumb to show you how much you’ve already affected him; a trail of blue follows his finger away before the surface tension breaks. He paints that blue on your lips as he speaks. “You might now know how to use your words, but I do, and I’m going to teach you how. Why don’t you try begging for my bulge if you want it so bad?”

He reclines, head leaning against hand while the other idly strokes his bulge. 

“Um, please?” Hesitance laces your voice, a harsh juxtaposition to the brash display of your mouth earlier. You’ve always been a doer. You mentally shake yourself, promising to do better. “Please let me suck your bulge?”

He scoffs. “Demanding already? I see you can’t ask nicely. I don’t know if I really believe you want this.”

You scoot forward on all fours. “Please, please, may I?” You’re looking desperately at his bulge writhing in his hand. That same heat from before fills you, swooping low in your gut and knocking the breath out of you. “I want it so bad,” with the back of your hand, you wipe away the drool that’s filling your mouth now. 

“Touch yourself,” he commands. You do just that, keeping your touch light and teasing for now; you’re so hyped up that even this is nearly enough. Hooking his knee over your shoulder, he simultaneously scoots towards you and brings you into him. You open your mouth, eager for the slightest taste of him.

“Please,” you whisper again. Your voice is so hoarse that it sounds like you’ve been screaming. It almost feels as though you have been. 

“How filthy are you-” he starts, bringing his nook to your mouth, “how filthy, that you can get off by just the sight of my bulge? That you get off by just being put in your place?”

His nook leaves trails of color against the skin of your face. He’s indiscriminate, not lingering too long at one spot, indifferent if he’s rubbing against your lips or your nose or your cheek. At once, it hits you that he’s not looking to get off; he’s marking you with his color. Still, you take your tastes where you can get them, licking your lips, dipping your tongue briefly to catch his taste from the source. 

“That’s right, sweetie, show me who you belong to tonight.” You look up at him, knowing your face must be a mess between his slick and your own saliva. He doesn’t seem to mind, his eyes growing dark as he studies you. “That’s right,” he repeats.

Gently, he grabs you by the cheeks again, pinching your cheeks between his fingers to hold your mouth open. He guides his bulge against your tongue, wet and dripping for you. Every taste you get of him spurs you on; you touch yourself harder, anticipating the end.

His hand behind your head is a strange contrast to his words; though he’s firm behind you, you get the sense that, if you were to pull back, he would let you go.

And for you, that’s a challenge. You don’t want him to go easy on you. Closing your mouth on him, you look him in the eyes and do your best to convey this: you want him, and you want him bad. 

For a moment, his eyes go wide, disbelieving, before something dark and challenging crosses his face.

“My mistake, thinking I could go easy on you,” he holds your head in place, really thrusting into your mouth. Relaxing your jaw, you let him in deeper. “I should have known you craved this. Drooling at me like you were sex starved.” You mold your tongue against his bulge, savoring the strong pulse of his heartbeat in your mouth. “No subtlety, just like any other guileless lowblood. Fine, then, show me how much you want it and I’ll give it to you.”

With some effort, you open your throat for him and he plunges in deep. You cough and sputter some, but in the end, you take it. 

“You should be thanking me,” he starts, gasping between words. “Thank me for letting you suck my bulge.”

You start to pull your mouth off of him, but he stops you, pushing you back down on his bulge.

“What did I say about using your words?”

Uh, you try to say thank you around his bulge? He scoffs and looks down at you, frustrated. A lightbulb goes off over your head.

You’re so close, letting your hand work yourself efficiently. Nobody flies the ship better than the pilot, and you can feel the free fall starting from your heart down your abdomen. So you let him know. You moan around his bulge, letting your harsh breaths from near-orgasm wash over his mons pubis. He thrusts lightly into you some more, and you whine as he hits the back of your throat.

“That’s good, that’s really good,” his voice is desperate now as he follows you to the same edge. “Think you can come with me? Come to the taste of, oh fuck, fuck, come to the taste of me.”

He’s losing his composure now, curling up around you and using your horns as leverage to bury his bulge as deep into your throat as he can. When you come, you drape boneless into him, and he comes too. It’s too much for you to take, relaxed with post orgasm bliss. You make a mess of his lap as some of his come drips from your mouth, but he doesn’t seem to mind.

Your poor couch is a mess. Good thing you can just flip the cushion over; this is the dirty side. Regardless of what he thinks, you were prepared. 

Interrupting your reprieve, Zebruh reaches over to the side table to retrieve his take out. You cross your arms in his lap, reclining your head on him as you watch him eat. He breaks off a little piece of… whatever it is that he’s eating, and presses it to your lips.

You open your mouth, taking every last bit. He smiles indulgently down at you, leaning back with a sigh.

“I think you’re finally starting to get it.” 


End file.
